


Coattails

by Milo



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Croc is a literal monster in disguise, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-13 19:04:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9137344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milo/pseuds/Milo
Summary: It's not often that anyone meets Crocodile's admittedly high standards.





	1. Chapter 1

It was more of a hick town than anything else; a little collection of haphazardly nestled shacks with a dirt path instead of an actual road. Blocked by mountains on one side and the sea on the other, it was a miserable little place that Crocodile hoped would become another seared patch of earth soon enough. The tailor there had the look of a man who’d lived far past his expiration date. Crocodile had admired his handiwork once upon a time, but, without him, there would be no reason to leave the place standing. He looked forward to leaving it in ruin.

The train arrived later in the afternoon and he passed through town with a casual but proud stride. It was a small town that didn’t often get new visitors--certainly not people of his class--which caught the attention of many passersby. He wasn’t sure whether his freshly made vest and cravat combination or if his gold alloy hook captured them more.

The Trafalgar Outfitting Shop on the far end of town was barely more than a hole in the wall. Wedged between a grocer’s and a barber shop, both of which had their exteriors remodeled, left the little place looking rather outdated; its old wooden trim and stained siding didn’t match the colorful shops around it. To show his customers that he really had the talent, the old man would have to consider redecorating soon. Crocodile turned the knob and let himself in.

The room was no bigger than a one room apartment, and its equipment made it appear that much smaller. Pre-made shirts lined little shelves in the wall and a grandfather clock ticked by to the left of the door. Photographs hung on the wall, leaning forward in the way many old frames did. But the room, save for Crocodile, was devoid of any people.

He tapped the bell sitting on the desk with the cash register. When no response came, he rang it twice.

There was a muffled sound of feet on hardwood from the ceiling. From the stairs leading to the little apartment above came a frazzled looking blond man in an apron. Crocodile’s eyebrows rose. This….no, he was barely a man, perhaps fresh out of adolescence--regardless he certainly had not been there last time he’d come. If the old man couldn’t answer the call in his own shop, than perhaps he’d already passed.

“Where is Trafalgar?” Crocodile asked.

“Mr. Trafalgar is unavailable right now,” the man answered. “But I’d be glad to help you with whatever you need.” He paused for a moment before he reached his long, lanky arm across the register to offer his hand. “My name is Cora. Nice to meet you!” 

Crocodile regarded the hand for a moment before he gave Cora an annoyed look.

“A delight,” he said dryly. 

“What can I do for you, Mr.--?”

“Crocodile,” he responded. “ _ Sir _ Crocodile. I’ve come into this shop several times for dress shirts.”

Cora blinked twice, squinted, and then held up a finger. He opened one of the long drawers in the register’s desk and dug around before he produced an old leather bound journal. He opened it and paged through.

“Crocodile...Crocodile...Ah! Yes, of course. Here we are,” Cora said, stopping on a particular page. “Mr. Trafalgar saved your measurements but according to his notes it’s been several years since you stopped in. I’d like to take some new ones, if that’s alright with you.”

“Make it quick,” he replied. “I’m running a tight schedule.”

Cora didn’t respond, as he was busy tucking a few things from the desk into his apron pocket. He waved to Crocodile to follow him into the more private back room. Opening the door revealed a now very crowded, messy room that Crocodile distinctly did not remember. Piles of fabric rolls filling each corner, the rug bunched up in the middle under the chair. The tri-mirror was partially obscured with various colorfully patterned fabrics, ropes, and ribbons. 

Mr. Trafalgar had always kept his rooms spotlessly clean in the past. He wondered how Cora even managed to find anything in the godforsaken mess.

As Cora moved around him to clear a decent space, Crocodile examined himself in the mirror. He moved his head to see all angles of his face before tucking a stray piece of hair back into place.

“I’m in need of a new shirt and vest combination,” he said. “Several of my older ones are in tatters.”

“Mhm,” Cora hummed. He moved a basket of differently colored threads out of the way. “Just the standard white, or would you prefer another color? And what of the vest?”

Crocodile thought for a moment. “I’m in the mood for something...unique. I want to walk into a room and announce my presence without saying a thing. I need it to capture my vibrant personality.”

Cora paused in moving things to look back at him with a tired expression, as if this wasn’t the first time someone had been so extraordinarily vague with him. Crocodile sneered.

“You’re not being very specific,” Cora said.

“Clearly you lack the creative spirit of your master,” Crocodile retorted.

Finally, he ushered Crocodile to a tiny stool. He lifted and stretched Crocodile’s arm with a gentle touch. The palms of his hands were covered in calluses and his fingers wrapped with bandages--a clumsy workman who stabbed himself one too many times with the needles. Cora pulled a blue measuring tape from the front pocket of his apron and measured around the thick muscles of Crocodile’s upper and lower arm, around his wrist and along the length. He set upon measuring Crocodile’s shoulders before he paused.

“For the best measurements I can give, you’ll have to remove your shirt,” Cora said.

Crocodile looked up at him, unamused. 

“Can you measure while blind?” He asked.

Cora blinked. “Can anyone?

“The shirt stays on,” Crocodile said, crossing his arms.

“Alright. If you insist.”

Cora instructed him to stand up straight as he could. He slid the tape under his arms to measure around his torso, taking a snug measurement. The tape lodged itself on a scute, making Crocodile inwardly flinch. Cora stopped again, which made Crocodile a bit nervous. When he finally reached out and touched the bony protrusion, Crocodile yanked himself away.

“Oh, sorry,” Cora said immediately. “Did that hurt?”

Crocodile was silent. Did this man think he was injured? He could work with that.

“Yes,” he replied. “There are several hideous wounds on my back that I’d prefer you didn’t agitate.”

“Well, I just want to say that I won’t judge,” Cora said with a friendly smile.

The other measurements came swiftly, with Cora now being very mindful of each and every scute. He jotted down his notes on a heavily trafficked pad of paper with binding that was falling apart. Crocodile spotted several other sets of notes in Cora’s messy scrawl, from other customers no doubt.

Finished with his work, Cora tucked the tape back in his pocket haphazardly--half of it dangled freely--and motioned for Crocodile to put his vest and coat back on. They both returned to the main room.

“If possible, I’d like to see you back within the next day or two for a test fitting,” Cora said. He typed away at the large, sticky metal keys on the aged cash register, calculating the price of Crocodile’s order. “Do you have any special requests?”

Crocodile thought for a moment. He scratched his chin before he gave Cora a smug grin.

“Surprise me.”

 

* * *

 

By evening, Crocodile arrived in his underground lair. He shifted from his larger, more dangerous appearance back into his human shape to fit through the door leading into his grand walk in closet. It was organized by color and by age, but also by favorites. He picked out a nice older white garment with looser sleeves and frills on the ends and his favorite pair of relaxing pants. 

In a wicker basket to the side laid one of his favorite shirts, cut to ribbons from a sudden, unplanned transformation. It was one of his better items, an old piece he’d had made decades ago. Nothing that would come out of the Trafalgar Outfitter Shop could replace it.

He passed through the narrow hallway leading from his collection into the living space. The kitchen was empty, but he found that someone had taken some meat out of the icebox in preparation for his return. That meant Daz had returned early from his own ventures. After eating, Crocodile made his way to the office and found said person seated at the desk.

“What are you doing?” Crocodile asked him, eyebrows raising.

“I’m calculating our profits,” Daz said. He stacked several coins up into a little golden tower and set them aside with the rest. “I want to be sure that we weren’t swindled out of any of this month’s share.”

Crocodile approached him slowly, eyeing the sack of gold coins that was open on the desk. He took a whiff; earlier that day he’d seen the coins himself and knew there were supposed to be two hundred coins. He couldn’t smell a single one missing from the bag.

“I told you already, it’s fine,” Crocodile said. “If we were missing one, I would know immediately.”

But Daz continued counting and stacking, and typing away at their little calculator which occasionally buzzed and clicked as the numbers printed out onto a roll of paper. Crocodile sat down on their lounge and stretched out his arms. His eyes never left Daz. 

“Come sit down, Daz.”

Daz lifted a hand. “In a moment,” he said. “I’m almost done.”

Crocodile waited. He tapped his foot and glared at little at Daz’s back. Several minutes passed, and he got up again. He approached Daz from behind, settling down on the stool with him and gently sliding his arms around him.

“Stop counting and pay attention to me, dammit,” he said gruffly.

Daz let out a quiet chuckle. The noises from the calculator ceased as he turned to kiss Crocodile on the cheek.

“You are very impatient today,” he said. Crocodile hummed and rested his head on Daz’s shoulder with a contented sigh. “How was Mr. Trafalgar?”

“Dying,” Crocodile replied. “That shop reeked of old flesh and disease. It won’t be long until he succumbs to it.”

“That’s a shame. I rather liked him,” Daz replied. “He was a very generous man.” Then, he frowned. “If he’s ill, then who attended you?”

“Some young pup that Trafalgar hired from god knows where,” he said. “He was all legs and covered in bandages like he’d gone and mangled himself trying to figure out the machines.” He laughed. “Not worth any of my time. We’ll be crushing the town from the map soon enough.”

“I’ll clear some room in our schedule next week,” Daz said.

Crocodile rested up against Daz’s back, closing his eyes. He was tired. They’d done more than their fair share of traveling that day, and he was looking forward to sleeping now. He trailed his hand up and under Daz’s shirt.

“I’m tired,” Crocodile said. “I’d like to go to bed now.”

“Of course,” Daz said. “In just a moment…”

Daz reached out to pick up another bunch of coins. Crocodile cracked his eyes open and grabbed his hand.

“There are  _ two hundred gold coins _ , Daz,” Crocodile said. “Now come to bed with me.”

“If you insist.”


	2. Chapter 2

It fit.

Crocodile stood staring back at his reflection in shock. It suited him exceedingly well, especially so for a first fitting. He shuffled a bit, testing the fabric. It wasn’t too rough or too soft, didn’t bunch up or pull. The shoulders were squared. And the color was a smooth, pleasant cream. Cora had informed him that he was planning to use some of their leftover brass buttons on the shirt as an added personal touch. All he could do was nod.

It wasn’t supposed to fit. It wasn’t even supposed to be remotely enjoyable. He had been set in his plan to demolish the town in minutes once he found enough flaws. That boy--it certainly couldn’t have been his handiwork, could it? Trafalgar had probably overseen him at the least, if not taken the job from his shoulders.

“Is there something wrong?” Cora asked, looking him over.

Crocodile finally shook his head and let out a short laugh. “Even in sickness, Trafalgar manages to produce things of value,” he said, tugging the front of the shirt. “He’s always had an eye for the trade.”

“Ah--” Cora smiled. “Unfortunately, Mr. Trafalgar is still in no shape to be working. I was the one who made your order.”

Crocodile opened his mouth to respond before closing it again. His eyebrows furrowed. The brat had made something he liked. There was no denying it. He had no reason to crush the shop to splinters. He rubbed the cloth of the shirt between two of his fingers.

“I’ve, uh, started the vest as well,” Cora continued as he went to the far side of the room. Crocodile looked at him. “It’s far from finished, but it should be fine for a sizing.”

He pulled out a neatly folded orange vest from one of the shelves. It was clearly still very much in production, with visible seams and the black overcheck pattern only half sewn in. Cora helped him into it and he looked himself over. It certainly was eye-catching. Such a bright color would be distinguishable from a crowd, or at a party, in seconds. It had a certain glamour that sent him reeling. He looked at himself over and over again but refused to outright admit that he’d gotten  _ exactly _ what he’d wanted.

Cora stood behind him, arms folded, with a sly grin on his face.

“Is this surprising enough?” He asked.

Crocodile’s eyes narrowed and he removed both garments.

“It will do,” he said as he handed them back to Cora. 

While he paid for his items, he was determinedly looking away from Cora. That some insignificant brat had shown him up, had conquered his challenge, left a sour feeling in his stomach. And, though it wasn’t outright, he could tell that Cora was gloating a bit about it.

“They should be finished about this time tomorrow,” Cora said cheerily. “You’re welcome to come pick them up once the shop opens.”

Without another word to Cora, Crocodile stormed out of the shop. Daz, who had been leaning up against the wall beside it, was caught by surprise. He followed quickly after Crocodile.

“You didn’t give the signal?” Daz asked.

Crocodile looked at him and then left out a huff.

“We’re leaving the town standing,” he said.

“Oh, I see,” Daz said. He offered Crocodile a small smile. “I suppose that’s for the best. You were running out of tailors that you liked.”

While true, the sour feeling remained. Even if he had been more than satisfied with his purchase, the fact alone that he was upstaged by some--some brat who’d barely gotten his feet wet in the trade...he clenched his fist. What was he supposed to vent his frustrations on?

He and Daz boarded the afternoon train leading into the countryside. Crocodile’s foul aura alone kept everyone else at bay and left them a large, comfortable seat to themselves toward the back of the car, with two empty rows in front of them. Crocodile took it upon himself to lay out along the length of the seat and rest his head on Daz’s lap.

“Hey,” Daz said softly while petting Crocodile’s hair. “Why don’t we go do something fun together to take your mind off of this?”

“I’m not in the mood,” Crocodile grumbled.

“Are you sure? I caught a few highwaymen trespassing in your territory without express travel authorization.”

Crocodile cracked an eye open. “That’s rather dangerous of them,” he said.

“They’ve been using a pass through a sparsely populated mountainous area. Apparently, they think we aren’t watching it,” Daz explained. “If you’re looking for a little stress relief.”

Crocodile grinned wickedly.

“You always seem to know just how to cheer me up.”

 

* * *

 

The bandits had surprisingly little to offer in exchange for trespassing. What payment remained Crocodile took from their lifespan. Only one of the men was left to scramble away, shaking and screaming as he went, to spread the message that Crocodile still very much so held power over that stretch of land. If anyone doubted his power before, they would understand that to cross him meant death.

In a day, he brought home the dress shirt and vest. In the comfort of his own closet he looked himself over. The vest fit him snugly, and even after moving around in it, he found that it managed to stay in place. The buttons weren’t a pain either. All in all it was very comfortable. With the right pair of pants, plus the right cravat and jacket combination…

Daz appeared out from the shelves with two cravats in hand, one green and one cream.

“Hmm...The cream is too much, put it back,” Crocodile said. He took the green one from Daz and set to tying it. “The green adds a bit of contrast to the orange and the light cream. It should suit that coat I got recently as well.”

“The mink coat?” Daz called from within the shelves. “Green with stripes?”

Crocodile turned towards the sound of his voice. “What  _ other _ green coat could I possibly mean?”

Moments later, Daz came back with the brand new coat in his hands. Crocodile wasn’t partial to fur. It was a pain to clean and care for, and often times the odor was repugnant. But when he spotted the fur coat in the window of a shop, he knew that he had to have it. Daz rested the coat over his shoulders and then stepped back. Crocodile looked himself over.

It was a very unique look, which was exactly what he wanted. Anyone could dress in the usual black and white or grey. His presence was supposed to be different; one that would stay in the memories of all who saw him. The orange and black was a warning, and the expensive coat was meant to be a reminder that he had more than enough wealth and power to command over anyone. He gently tucked the cravat in a little more. 

“Silver or gold?”

Crocodile looked back. “What?”

“Your prosthesis,” Daz said. “Which color would you prefer?”

He held up two different hands; one made from silver and the other from solid gold. They were charmed to move after they made contact with his body. As they were both older enchanted items, they still had the ability to form into weapons as well. Crocodile looked between them. The silver would make for a more subtle addition, but the gold was more eye-catching. It was his favorite for a reason. He took off his usual polished wood prosthetic and exchanged it for the gold.

Then, he compared it with the rest of his outfit. It was a good fit, adding just the right touch to a perfect outfit.

“What do you think?” Crocodile asked Daz.

“Flashy,” Daz replied.

“It’s not  _ flashy _ ,” Crocodile said with a huff. “It’s stylish. If I wanted to be flashy I’d go and cover myself in feathers.” He looked at himself in the mirror and tugged at his coat a bit. “Not flashy at all.”

Daz chuckled. “Of course not. My mistake,” he said. He put a hand on Crocodile’s shoulder. “Regardless, it suits you very well. Is that what you’re planning to wear when we visit Cobra?”

“It’s a consideration,” Crocodile said, removing the coat. Daz helped him untie the cravat. “That man could do to remember me.”

“Something about him troubles you?” Daz asked, laying both coat and cravat over his arm. “He’s always paid his dues.”

“Yet he looks at me without fear,” Crocodile said. “Nefertari Cobra sees himself as just another man. The whole damn country of Alabasta is going to go to ruin once the citizens realize they could tread on his face and he’d apologize. He’ll have a riot on his hands in time.” 

Daz’s eyebrows rose. “You’re concerned for Alabasta?”

“I couldn’t care less,” Crocodile sneered. “I was merely thinking about how convenient it would be for Alabasta to collapse internally.” He finally undid the last button of his shirt and slipped it off, revealing the scale patches on his arms and scutes down his back. “With nobody to lead a chaotic nation, it will surely dissolve, and what’s left will be mine for the taking.”

“The people seem to like him, though,” Daz pointed out. “He’s always made fair and just decisions for his country.”

“These things never last, Daz. I’ve seen it happen countless times.”

He waited for Daz to return from the shelves with some of his lounge clothes. Once he did, Crocodile quickly changed. Not caring much about the hamper’s location, he set aside his dirtied clothes in a heap. Daz rolled his eyes when he thought Crocodile wasn’t looking. Crocodile narrowed his eyes.

“It’s my own damn house, I’ll do as I please,” he said.

“And you and I  _ both _ know it’ll be me who cleans it up when you want your favorite shirt to wear,” Daz said pointedly. Crocodile’s face scrunched up and he looked away. “I’m your partner, not your maid, Crocodile.”

Crocodile huffed. “Do you really expect someone like me to stoop to such lows of laundry and dishes?” He said.

Daz looked unamused.

“Well, if  _ that’s _ the case,” he began as he started out of the room, “I suppose you can make dinner for yourself tonight.”

The realization of what he’d done didn’t set in until Daz was out of the room. Crocodile’s eyes widened. He...had no idea how to work the oven or the stove. Nor was he entirely sure where the pots and pans were either. Daz had organized their kitchen. 

He quickly followed after Daz, trying to come up with a way out of this that didn’t involve begging pitifully.


End file.
